We watched him get out of the car. Then he just stood there with one hand pressing on the door. Just a few seconds before, after he had yelled at us, at his daughter really, he had parked the car so quickly and had bolted out so furiously that I had been a little afraid. But now I could see the adrenaline had emptied out of him. He stood by his car looking at us parked right in front of him.
He had arrived just as we were coming out of the front door of the building where she lived. He yelled at her from his car and she knew who it was without looking and had said to me, “Ignore him.”
I had never met him before. But one day she had told me, “He hates Mexicans.”
The first thing he had yelled was, “Where are you going with him?” And then I heard “Damn, you!” And he repeated this over and over. I felt pity and shame for him, and fear for me.
I started my engine and we left him standing there. I wondered if maybe fear had suddenly taken over him. A sort of fear of the “Mexican.”